


Picture Perfect

by bayoublackjack



Series: Love in London [28]
Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Scandal in Belgravia references, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Deductions, F/M, Manipulation, Obsessive Behavior, POV Joan Watson, Painting, Possessive Moriarty, References to Addiction, Revelations, Secrets, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 20:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3222557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bayoublackjack/pseuds/bayoublackjack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a mysterious painting turns up on Joan's doorstep, she tracks it to a familiar location and an even more familiar artist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picture Perfect

Joan and John returned to their townhouse after a long day at the clinic.  Joan was still getting into the habit of practising medicine again.  It had been years since she resigned from her surgery post in New York and she had only just recently completed the arduous process of acquiring a license to practise in the UK and registering with the GMC.  Despite the lapse in time, she wasn’t completely out of her depth.  The knowledge was still there.  She had been valedictorian of her medical school class and she occasionally made use of her knowledge while working as both a sober companion and a consulting detective.

“John, I think we should get takeout for dinner.  I’m too tired to cook,” Joan called out to him from her spot splayed out on the sofa.  When he didn’t answer, she lifted her head.  “John?”

“Yea, sorry,” John replied, entering the lounge with a large canvas in his hands.  “Did you see this?  Someone left it at the door.”

Joan sat up fully.  “What is that?”

“A painting…of us.”

“Us?”

“Yea.”  John nodded as he moved over to the couch and took a seat next to her.  “Did you have this done?”

“No, someone must have commissioned it on our behalf,” Joan said quickly as she took in the painting, paying careful attention to the style and brushstrokes.  Her stomach lurched.  There was no doubt in her mind about the identity of the artist that painted it and the fact that she had only just recently bought the sweater John was wearing in the portrait told her that the threat was unnervingly close to home.

“The likeness is rather good, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yea.”  Joan forced a smile.  She scanned the canvas once more for details.  Something about the signature at the bottom sent up a red flag.  The name Eaton followed by the number forty-four boxed in.  It was a clue.  She was sure of it.  “I just remembered I left my phone at the clinic,” she told John.  “How do you feel about Chinese?  I’ll pick some up on the way in.”

“Chinese works for me,” John replied with a nod.  “Do you want me to come with you?  We could just have dinner out.”

“No.  I won’t take long,” Joan promised.  She leaned in and pressed a tender kiss to his lips for good measure.  “You stay here and figure out which wine goes best with Sichuan.”

“Riesling,” John answered as he pulled her in for another, more passionate kiss.  “Don’t forget the fortune cookies.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”  Joan gave him another smile as she rose to her feet and headed towards the door to pull on her coat and scarf.  Once she was outside, Joan pulled her phone from her pocket and did a quick search while she hailed a taxi.  “44 Eaton Square,” she told the driver as she climbed inside.  The ride to the Belgravia district of London was relatively short and Joan was soon walking inside the impressive residence.

“In here…” a familiar voice called to her.

Joan exhaled sharply and braced herself for trouble.  She stepped into the parlour that was lavishly decorated in shades of cream and white.  Several canvases filled the spaces.  Some even positioned haphazardly upon the otherwise pristine furnishings.  There were paintings of everything from fruit and flowers to sea and cityscapes.  It was the portraits, however, that caught Joan’s eye.  There was one of John, another with all three Holmes brothers and most prominently featured was the large painting of Joan that she had first encountered back in New York.

Near the large windows, another canvas rested upon its easel.  Jamie Moriarty stood front of it, barefoot and dressed casually in jeans and a crisp, white button down shirt.  Palette in hand, she expertly applied paint to her half-finished masterpiece, whose subject Joan was unable to identify in its current state.

“Half a mo,” Jamie requested with a lifted brush.  “I’m losing daylight and I’m keen to get the fingers  _just_ right.”  Joan exhaled impatiently while Moriarty made at least a dozen more strokes before standing back and making a sound of approval.  “Perfect.”  She set her palette aside and dropped her brush into a water filled glass.  “Joan!”  She greeted her with a bright smile.  “So lovely to see you here.”

“Why are you here?” Joan demanded.

“It’s a nice place, isn’t it?”  Jamie looked around.  “It belonged to Irene Adler once upon time,” she informed her.  “The  _real_ Irene Adler.  I borrowed her name so I figured why not borrow her home as well.  I mean it’s not like she has much use for it these days.”  She let out a breathy chuckle.  “Oh those Holmes boys!”  She tsked as she settled into an empty chair near her easel.  “A stint with them is enough to make a woman lose her head,” she quipped wickedly.

“I don’t mean the house and you know it,” Joan retorted irritably.  “Why are you here in London?”

Jamie shrugged.  “Business.  Pleasure.  It is my home after all.”

“And the painting?” Joan questioned.  “What the hell was that?  Another one of your sick games?”

“No,  _that_ was a wedding gift,” Jamie replied, crossing her legs at the knees.  “I have to say I was a bit shocked to hear about your sudden nuptials.  Sherlock and I have discussed your search for companionship in the past, but John Watson is the one to win your heart?   _Really_ ?  Is that your type?  That sad little lump of a man?” she asked.  The disappointment was evident in her voice.  “Honestly, Joan, I expected  _so_ much more of you.”

Joan scoffed.  “Then it’s good that your opinion means nothing to me.”

Jamie smiled again.   “I don’t believe you, but I do love to see that old spark return.”

“And I don’t believe you’re here without purpose,” Joan countered as she folded her arms across her chest.  “So cut the crap and tell me what you want.”

“Isn’t it obvious?  I’m here for Sherlock.”

“You stay the hell away from him,” Joan demanded firmly.

“Why should I?” Jamie asked.  “I love him.  He loves me.  One big, happy family.”

“You don’t love Sherlock.  You only love the chaos you create.”

“I love his mind.  I always have,” Jamie said.  “It’s why I can never bring myself to kill him.  That big, beautiful brain of his, I couldn’t bear to lay waste to such an exquisite work of art.  His brother on the other hand, well William was my brother’s toy, but I think I can find it in me to give him  _exactly_ what he deserves,” she told her with a wicked smile.  “And his little dog too.”

Joan uncrossed her arms.  “If you even  _think_ about touching John…”

“You’ll what?” Jamie challenged.  “Scratch my eyes out?   _Kill_ me?” she suggested with a laugh.  “Oh Joan.  I don’t need to have his blood on my hands to make you suffer,” she insisted.  “Besides, we both know that Sherlock is the key.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“It must burn you up to know that I understand him better than you ever will.  Why else would he continue to write to me after my unfortunate incarceration?” Jamie taunted, leaning forward in her seat.   “Face it.  He needs me just as much, if not  _more_ than he needs you.”

“He doesn’t need you.”

“Oh, but he does!  And do you know why?  It’s because I can give him what you can’t,” Jamie said.  “Love.”

“You don’t love Sherlock.   _I_ love Sherlock.”

“But not in the way he wants you to.”

“What?” Joan questioned with a frown. 

“Sherlock is in love with you.”

Joan shook her head.  “You’re lying.”

“You didn’t know?”  Jamie gasped then laughed.  “Oh well this is just  _brilliant_ !” 

“You’re crazy.”

“Yes and you’re blind,” Jamie retorted.  “But seriously, think about it.  He put a needle in his arm when he thought he lost the last woman he loved.  How do you think he’ll react this time?”

“Don’t…”

“He’s already feeling the pull, you know.”  Jamie settled back into her chair.  “He went to a meeting about a week ago with that woman.”

“Woman?”

“Molly.”

“No.”  Joan shook her head again.  “He would have told me.  He or Molly would have said something.”

“And yet…they didn’t,” Jamie teased.  “You’re slipping, Joan.  Too caught up in your love bubble to see what’s happening around you.”

“Shut up!”

“So touchy,” Jamie retorted with a grin.  “Why are you upset?  You’ve replaced Sherlock.  You really shouldn’t be surprised that he’d trade you in for a younger model,” she quipped.

“Molly isn’t my replacement.”

“Of course not,” Jamie agreed.  “She doesn’t come close to holding a candle to you, Joan.  Bit dim though, isn’t she?  I’d be offended that she didn’t recognise me when we spoke, but this is the same woman that thought my brother was genuinely interested in her.”  She shrugged.  “Perhaps that’s her appeal.  Molly Hooper, a means to an end,” she thought out loud.  “She’s a distraction.  A pawn.  A message in a bottle wrapped in a frumpy little jumper and a lab coat.”  She met Joan’s eyes.  “Let’s send a message.”

Joan could already see the wheels turning in her head as she spoke.  “Message?”

“Shall we kill her?  It’s been  _so_ long since we’re had a chance to bond.  Let’s do it, Joan.  Let’s kill her!  No one would ever find the body,” Jamie said then paused suddenly.  “Except for the hands.   _Exquisite_ hands.”  She cast a glance towards the easel and her work in progress.  “They’re her best feature.”  She turned her attention back to Joan, grinning broadly.  “ _Those_ we’ll keep and send to William wrapped with a bow.  He’ll appreciate that.  You’ve seen the state of his flat.”

“You’re not touching Molly or anyone else important to me.”

Jamie dropped the smile.  “We both know I can touch whomever I like.  I’ve more than proved that in the past,” she said darkly.  “But I won’t kill her,” she conceded resuming her airy tone.  “Not until after the fireworks.”

“What are you on about now?”

“Your good mate Molly…she knows how Sherlock feels about you,” Jamie informed her.  “Just like she knew that William faked his death and that Sherlock is feeling tempted to use again.”  She clicked her tongue distastefully.  “Sneaky little lab rat has a  _nasty_ habit of keeping secrets.  I wonder what  _else_ she knows,” she questioned, rising to inspect her canvas once more.  “With friends like that…who needs enemies?”


End file.
